Forgetfulness the Murky Decline
by HexalianRebelAgent
Summary: A young man wakes up with no recollection of who or where he is. All he has to his yet-to-be-redetermined name is a large camper's bag and a small notebook. Why can't he remember? What is it he is forgetting? And who the heck is that strange, hooded figure? Descend into the Darkness to find out.


**A/N: I admit that I love rethinking serious or frightening things with a humorous tone; it helps me endure horror movies and scary videos. So I decided to pick something many consider terrifying, and yes, it is another video game: Amnesia; the Dark Descent. Have fun~**

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A young man's consciousness slowly returned to him, slowly crawling through his ear up into his brain. His vision blurred as he opened his eyes and swam lazily back into focus. A drop of water from the hole in the ceiling above landed softly on his cheek; he blinked and groaned, holding his head dizzily as he sat up. His entire body ached and his mouth had a taste something awful and dry. He staggered to his feet, stumbling a bit as he tried to remember how to walk straight. Where was he, anyway? Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure **who** he even was. It would probably be a good idea to figure that out first. As he toddled clumsily around the short hall he'd awoken in, he suddenly tripped over something and was reunited with the stone floor. A coarse obscenity was rasped from his dry throat as he lifted himself back up to see what had tripped him: a camper's bag. It was pretty large and mostly empty save for a small book meant for note-keeping in one pocket. It was conveniently comfortable against the man's back, almost like he'd worn it before. He took notice of a glistening pink liquid on the floor beside him, seeing that a trail of it continued into the next hall. Finally recalling what mere infants have easily mastered, he got to his feet and walked out of the room, following the trail.

He looked up at the suits of armor as he passed them. Why couldn't he remember anything? This place was so eerily familiar and yet… He gripped his forehead and groaned as it throbbed slightly. As he turned and stepped into a lit hallway, a door flew open before him. He cried out, gripping his chest and panting. He recollected his bearings and continued forward, stopping to peek into cupboards and drawers and happening upon multiple Tinderboxes. Curiosity overtook him though, and he peered into the room with the mysteriously sentient door. Besides another Tinderbox, he found an open, half-consumed bottle of liquor on the lone table; he sniffed it curiously and gave it a disapproving eye. It smelled…strange, even by the standard of most liquor. Then again, his throat was really dry, and just holding this bottle nagged his mind of that fact. He really wished he could remember whether or not he was okay with drinking. With one apprehensive swig, he quickly coughed and decided he was definitely **not **okay with it; not with that bottle at least…

He left the room and found a flight of stairs leading into a silent stone hallway. Ascending cautiously, he was suddenly overtaken by dizziness and chills as a strange roaring sound filled his ears. He collapsed on the floor, desperately trying to block the sound out. As the roaring passed, a soft, almost alluring voice could be heard, accompanied by footsteps that seemed to circle him.

"My, my…" it spoke liltingly. "Aren't you a precious little coward?" A spookily sweet giggle bounced off the stone walls, and the footsteps ran away. The young man's spine tingled with fear as he got up again, continuing to follow the trail of pink droplets. The trail weaved through another hallway, where another door sprang to life and burst open, a powerful gust of wind blowing out all the lit sconces in the hall. The man shuddered and used one of his Tinderboxes to relight one of them; when he tried to remove the torch from its holster on the wall, he found that he couldn't. It didn't seem to be held in by anything, but it wouldn't budge a centimeter. He sighed in disappointment, continuing to roam in the dark. The pink trail finally made itself worthwhile though, when his foot brushed against a brass object on the floor: a blessed godsend in the form of an oil lantern. He picked it up and lit the wick, turning quickly when he heard a nearby crash. With the lantern in hand, he ran toward the sound, just barely catching a glimpse of a black cloak running away.

"Hey!" he shouted after it, remembering that he did, in fact, have a voice. A familiar giggle rang out as he followed, but the room he entered was completely devoid of life. The pink trail continued though, slipping under a door across the room. He took a deep breath and approached, flinging the door open. It was a just a small study, and on the desk was a small bottle of lantern oil beside a sheet of paper. Setting the lantern down, he began to read the lengthy letter that was written.

_ 19th of August, 1839._

_ I wish I could ask you how much you remember. I don't know if there will be anything left after I consume this drink. Don't be afraid, Daniel. I can't tell you why, but know this… I choose to forget. Try to find comfort and strength in that fact. There is a purpose, you are my final effort to put things right. God willing, the name Alexander of Brennenburg still invokes bitter anger in you. If not, this will sound horrible. Go to the Inner Sanctum, find Alexander, and kill him. His body is old and weak, and yours, young and strong. He will be no match for you. One last thing. A Shadow is following you. It's a living nightmare, breaking down reality. I have tried everything, and there is no way to fight back. You need to escape it as long as you can. I have provided you a single weapon, but use it sparingly, as it is not in perfect condition. __**Redeem us both, Daniel. Descend into the darkness where Alexander waits and murder him.**_

_ Your former self,_

_ Daniel._

A weapon? Daniel peered under the desk and sure enough, there was a weapon: a musket. It was well-crafted, as far as he could tell; it felt right in his hands. Maybe it belonged to him before he wiped his memory. He took aim at nothing in particular, but then he remembered that he didn't remember how to load and fire the damn thing. It was probably just as well, he didn't see any ammunition for it, nor was the musket itself loaded. So… It is useless… He huffed, but he situated the weapon through the rucksack's straps, held semi-securely between his back and the pack itself. Looking around the room, he saw no visible exits; groping along the walls, he first came across a draft that blew softly from behind a bookcase. After that, his hand came to rest on a small lever, which he could not bring himself to resist pulling. He flinched at the low creaks and scrapes of wood on stone floor, but he turned to see the bookcase pivoting to reveal a concealed passage with a short flight of stairs. And on those stairs, facing away from him, stood that cloaked, shadowed figure again. It laughed tauntingly at him again and ran up the stairs; he called after it and, despite fearful instinct telling him not to follow, pursued the figure up the stairs.


End file.
